Cadmus Easton - A Hunger Games Story
by thatkillerquote
Summary: The year after the 2nd Quarter Quell, Cadmus Easton, a boy from District 8 is reaped in the 51st Hunger Games.


**Chapter 1 • Tribute**

It is my mama who taps me gently rousing me from a deep sleep. Even before my eyes are open I know what day it is; yet, I don't bolt upright and being gnawing my fingernails raw. Instead, I force a smile and lie back down. Her expression is pained and I can tell she didn't sleep much. Who can blame her? Her boys are up for the reaping today.

I lie there a bit longer, watching the dust floating in the morning light coming through the only window in our tenement. Usually I would be up before sunrise on reaping day, but this year is different. This year mama must have convinced papa to let me sleep in. Ever since the last games my family has done anything they can to make me feel better, but their special treatment only serves as a reminder...

Pressing my head against my pillow to avoid the thought, I turn and writhe in my cot. The two beds immediately to the left of my cot are empty and undressed; the sheets hanging on a line stretching from wall to wall in the middle of the room. Reaping day isn't in anyway stimulating, but my mother always takes the day to clean and wash everything. I know she does it to keep her mind occupied.

Feeling lethargic and unable to quiet my mind, I finally decide to get up and get ready. I wrap myself in my blanket for privacy while I strip bare, dropping my clump of clothing in a pile. Shedding the blanket once I'm behind the shower curtain, I turn the rusty knob and await the icy spray. Instead, the water is warm and inviting, but I don't trust it to stay this way. I finish quickly and get dressed, once again under the privacy of my blanket. Once I'm in my reaping clothes I can't ignore the uneasiness in my stomach anymore. At least this year my mama found me a belt to hold my brothers old pants in place. As I struggle to comb my thick black hair, she comes behind me and fixes my collar. The shirt is a light blue, a nice color against my light-brown skin, she says. Returning her smile, I ignore how her eyes betray her calm expression in the mirror.

Then my papa and older brother Camden arrive, placing what they brought for tonight's meal on the table. Since factories and schools are closed for the reaping everyone flocks to the market so they can have first pick. Usually I would have the choice to go with them, but like I said this year is different. They must have left fairly early, because judging from what they placed on the table, they'd found some fair deals: an okay-looking loaf of bread, a small portion of meat, and a pile of strawberries wrapped in cloth. My stomach grumbles just eyeing the food on the table. I imagine the meat in a warm soup, and the strawberries making the bread taste better.

My brother smiles at me when our eyes meet. The type of smile that is meant to be reassuring but isn't, with his lips pursed flat in a straight line. I know what he's thinking. Every year we both look forward to the meal following the reaping, but every year there's the possibility that one of us might not make it back. After last year's games, I finally understand why the meal following the reaping can remotely be seen as a time for celebration...

While my mother prepares tonight's meal, we sit around the table and eat a loaf of bread. The bread is stale, but there's enough strawberries that we each take one. I savor every bite; taking a nibble of strawberry with every bite of bread. On a normal day our one-room tenement would be empty. My mama and papa work all day at the textile factory, and after school me and my brother work a four hour shift there. We hardly see our parents during the day, and although we eat in silence now my family's presence is comforting.

Once I've taken my last bite I sit there unsure of what to do. I think about asking my papa for one more strawberry and I imagine he'd say yes given my "difficult circumstance," as I've heard mama call it when she thinks I'm out of earshot. But I can't do it. I can't use his memory to earn sympathy..._Damn it,_ I scold myself, feeling the weight of the memories running through my head. Placing my elbows on the table I look out the window, wiping my eyes dry with my sleeves.

Next to me, my brother has finished eating but he remains, tracing a chip in the table with his fingernail. I risk a glance at my papa, whose features soften upon seeing my expression. His features are so much like my own, that hiding my emotions from him has never been easy. Suddenly he starts to get up, but before doing so he slides a strawberry each to me and my brother. I don't take my eyes off of it, even when I feel him plant a kiss on the top of my head, and continue to do the same to my brother. Fighting back tears I take the first bite...

At 9 o'clock we head into town. Along the way we cross a rusty bridge over a dry ditch and a few factories. It's nice not to see any of them spitting their fumes into the air but the smell is never really gone. A couple families converge on our path—most of them familiar—but no one says a word so the rest of the walk remains painfully quiet.

It's about a thirty minute walk into town from our tenement building. Everyone in District 8 is housed in them, about twenty families per building tightly packed into rooms within a few feet from each other. Thankfully we live in the section of tenements furthest from the town square where reapings are held in front of the Justice Building. The downside is we live closer to a textile factory where the smell is stronger. Then again, with 43 factories in our district it's impossible to escape the stink of fumes no matter where you live.

Armed peacekeepers roam the streets around the square. Spotting them from a distance is enough to make me uneasy, but when one unexpectedly appears behind us my entire body tenses up. They are the reason parents tell their children to stay away from the square. We're right to be afraid when they guard this area day and night, and won't hesitate to shoot you for so much as a staring too long. I relax once we're among the tangle of the crowd in the square. Every kid up for the reaping, ages twelve through eighteen, lines up to sign in, while family members and the other remaining residents surround the perimeter of the square.

I walk with my brother for a bit, but then I pick a slower pace and watch him disappear into the line. We promised before my first reaping to never say goodbye. _"Tributes have time for that once they're picked,"_ he said. _"But don't worry, they won't pick either one of us."_

It had calmed me down, but it didn't stop my nightmares. _"Cadmus it's okay," he would whisper in the dark. "If they pick you...I'll volunteer."_

_"Really?"_ I could barely speak in between sobs.

_"I'm your older brother. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise...Shhh, now go to sleep. Everything will be okay."_

The woman at the sign-in table holds out her palm expectantly, brandishing a cylinder instrument in her other hand. Without meeting my eyes she takes my index finger. After a terse shocking sound and a brief jab of pain, she presses my finger to a Capitol form creating a red blotch. This is how they keep track of all the kids eligible for the reaping. Apparently they don't see enough of our blood in the games each year. In a swift motion the woman in white scans the blotch with rectangular device, that beeps displaying my profile:

_Easton, Cadmus 15 M _

Keeping my gaze low I make my way to the section for my age group. A thick rope of anxiety slowly coils down my throat, settling in my stomach in tangles but I prevent it from showing on my face. Among the other boys of District 8 I relax, imagining their elevated heights concealing me from the cameras and all of Panem. Without noticing, I turn my head staring at the empty space next to me. A space that was not empty before last year up until this very moment. The rope in my stomach twists, creating an uneasy feeling that threatens to surge forth tears.

Suddenly a voice calls my attention to the stage. The mayor of District 8, Clyde Barron speaks into the microphone welcoming everyone. As custommed he begins to read the history of Panem, a nation that rose from the ashes of a place once called North America. He lists the countless disasters and proceeds to tell the story of the Dark Days. A bloody war between the Capitol and the rebelling Districts that ended with the Treaty of Treason, which gave us the yearly reminder of our districts' betrayal, The Hunger Games.

He read it so proudly, puffing up his chest with each breath making me feel slightly angry at him. The mayor is not someone the people of 8 confide in. When I was younger my mother warned me of playing with the mayor's kids, telling me that they were close with the Capitol and could bring us trouble. I didn't really understand what she meant back then, but as I grew older I understood the resentment and fear people placed in the mayor and his family. Telling from the size of his gut and clothes on his back, he's better off than all of us. I have a hard time seeing his position being handed out without some sort of alliance with President Snow.

I tune in just as he introduces Ophelia Cordwayne, our district's last living Victor. She stands, offering a quick smile to the scattering applause that is heard. Straining myself to see, I watch as she returns to her chair, wiping all traces of emotion from her face. She looks about my mother's age, with gentle features, and a head-full of black ringlets, but a whole lot wealthier in her navy pantsuit. Reapings are the only time she's really ever seen in public and I don't blame her for that. If I had her life with a home in the Victor's Village, you couldn't pay me to leave. With all the wealth she has—and the fact that she lived—her expression doesn't reflect any of it.

Next to her, Lotus Bertram, our district's escort springs up as she's introduced. She ruffles her bright-teal dress and prances to the podium. Her shrill voice takes me by surprise every year as she expresses how excited she is. "Now it's time to select our tributes, who will be representing District 8 in the 51st Annual Hunger Games!"

"Ladies first," she announces, she then reaches into the glass ball holding the girls' names. Still straining myself to see, I watch as her hand pulls a single slip of paper. Following it carefully with my eyes, the slip of paper is unfolded and the name is read into the microphone. **"Leina Skeep." **

Somewhere in the crowd there is commotion. Resisting the urge to look around like most of the boys around me do, I keep my eyes trained on the stage, knowing if the girl does not come up herself, she will be forced onto the stage by Peacekeepers. A few seconds later the girl approaches the stage, two Peacekeepers following closely behind. Lotus welcomes her to the stage, placing her off to her left. Peering through the gaps in the shoulders of the taller boys in front of me, I see a clear image of her. She's pale with strawberry-blonde hair, and a tall thin frame. Her expression both scared and confused. I watch as her head scans the crowd repeatedly, probably searching for her family in the crowd.

As usual, Lotus asks for a volunteer. Someone of age—of the same gender—willing to take the place of the tribute reaped. I don't think I've ever seen her around, so I can't be sure she has any sisters but even if she did it wouldn't matter. No one has ever volunteered for anyone even as far as my parents remember. And remembering that fact is enough to make me uneasy...

"And now, for our gentleman," Lotus says, after a brief silence in which no one speaks out.

In the back of my mind I hear my brother's voice. _"If they pick you...I'll volunteer. I'm your older brother. I won't let anything happen to you, I promise..."_

I silence his voice immediately and focus on Lotus as she walks to the second glass ball.

_Not me, please not me. Anyone but me..._ I tell myself over and over.

She reaches into the glass ball with the boys' names, digs deep into the ball, and pulls out a slip of paper. My heart is beating faster and faster, anxiety building up in my chest. My thoughts running wild, focusing on all the things I tried to ignore before. Focusing on the seven slips of paper that have my name written on them. And focusing on the empty space next to me.

I clench my jaw and try to take deep breaths. I think back to my first reaping, how I almost cried when I thought I'd heard my name, causing me to panic and hide behind the bigger twelve-year-old boys, until finally someone else walked to the stage. How I didn't stop crying until my brother came to find me...And the next few reapings after that. Every year I dread this moment in silence only to be appeased by a stranger's fate. Only that for some it isn't a stranger...and last year it was someone I knew—

**"Cadmus Easton,"** the District 8 escort calls my name.


End file.
